But she was a case of mutton dressed as lamb.
Despite her cougar attempts and blatant inappropriateness, I was oddly fond of the woman. She helped me out on more than one occasion down through the years, signing me out of classes, covering my absenteeism, burying misdemeanors and all types of incriminating shite that would reflect badly on me.
Back in third year, when I came home from training camp, I'd dropped an Ireland jersey with most of the team's signatures in to her.
It was a last-minute display of appreciation on my part, knowing that she'd gone to a great deal of trouble to get the Board of Education to waver a compulsory oral junior cert exam I'd missed while away.
I had the jersey in my gear bag and just gave it to her, feeling like I needed to compensate the woman for her efforts.
After that, she was my biggest champion, doing countless, and often morally questionable, favors for me.
And I, in turn, snagged her tickets to games whenever I could.
We had a good arrangement.
"I'm here to see you, Dee," I shot back with a flirty wink. Fighting down the urge to run for the hills from the school cougar, I sauntered over to the counter that separated her office from the rest of reception and grinned. "I was hoping you could help me out with something."
"I'm always willing to help my favorite all-star," she purred. "With anything."
"Appreciate it," I replied, repressing the urge to shudder when she reached over the counter and stroked her inch long, flaming red fingernails across my knuckles. "Do you have an envelope?"
"An envelope?" Her drawn-on brows shot up in surprise. "Oh," she muttered, looking a little forlorn.
Reaching behind the desk, she rummaged around before slapping a plain brown envelope on the counter.
Pulling out my wallet, I snagged two €50 notes and stuffed them inside.
"Do you have a pen?" I asked.
With a little huff, she handed me one.
"You're a lifesaver," I mumbled as I quickly scrawled a note on the envelope before placing the pen on the counter.
"Is that all?"
"Actually no, it's not."
Resting my elbows on the counter, I fingered the envelope between my hands and smiled down at her.
Here it goes…
"I'm looking for some information on a student."
Dee frowned. "Information on a student?"
"Yeah." I nodded, widening my smile. "Shannon Lynch."
Who had I been fooling with distracting myself with reality tv?
I was an obsessive bastard by nature, with a one-track mind that was currently – and solely – programmed on her.
I had to know more.
I needed more.
I wasn’t thick enough to think this didn’t matter.
Or that my reaction to McGarry in the changing rooms earlier didn’t matter.
It mattered that she was able to do this to me.
It mattered that, hours later, I was still thinking about her, wondering about her, and inevitably worrying about her.
It mattered that she mattered when no one ever mattered to me before.
Fuck, now I was confused about all the matters.
"Oh, Johnny." Dee pursed her lips, her frown deepening, as she drew me back to the present. "I'm not sure. Mr. Twomey made it clear that you are to have no contact with the Lynch girl–" her voice broke off and she reached for her notepad. "See?" she tapped her finger on the scrawled pad. "It's written down and everything. Her mother was demanding you be suspended for that incident on the pitch today. She's calling it assault. It took a lot of persuading on Mr. Twomey's part to stop her from phoning the Gardaí–"
"Come on, Dee," I purred, smothering my outrage with what I hoped was charm. "You know me. I would never intentionally hurt a girl."
"Of course you wouldn’t," she breathed, blinking up at me. "You're a good boy."
"And you're very good to me." Leaning closer, I covered her hand with mine, and whispered, "So, all I need you to do is tell me what you know about her – or better yet, let me see her file."
"No way, Johnny." She chewed on her bottom lip. "If anyone found out, my job would be on the line –"
"You think I'd get you into trouble, Dee?" I coaxed with a small shake of my head. "It can be our little secret." God, I was a complete fucktard, playing on this poor woman's emotions.
But I wanted that file, dammit.
I had a burning curiosity to find out about Shannon – more specifically what happened to her at her old school.
Mr. Twomey's words had planted the seed inside my head and I was dying to find out.
"I'm sorry, honey, but I can't help you this time," Dee replied, lips pursed. "I need this job."
Frustrated, I shook my head and wrestled my temper into touch before trying again, "Can you at least give me her locker number?"
Dee's eyes narrowed. "Why do you need that?"
"I just do," I shot back, tone a little harder now.
I was pissed off.
I wasn’t used to being told no.
When I asked for something, I usually got it.
It was a shitty way to be, but that's how life went for me.
"I already told you," she retorted. "Mr. Twomey said you're not supposed to go near her –"
"It's her locker number, Dee, not her fucking home address," I snapped, irritation growing. "You'd swear I was a fucking murderer or something – the way you're all acting."
With a heavy sigh, Dee nodded dejectedly and walked over to the filing cabinet. "Alright."
"Thank you," I replied, tone heavy with sarcasm.
"But you didn’t get this off me," she grumbled, rummaging through each drawer until she found the desired folder.
"Fine."
"I'm serious, Johnny. I don’t need the hassle."
"Neither do I."
Flicking the folder open, she quickly scanned the first page before snapping it shut. "Locker 461. In the third-year wing."
"Great, thanks for this." I grabbed the pen and scrawled the number on the back of my hand, before heading for the door. Pausing in the doorway, I turned and asked, "Can you at least tell me how she is?"
Dee sighed. "The last I heard, her mother was taking her to the A&E for a scan."
"A scan?" I frowned, anxiety gnawing at my gut. "She alright though, isn’t she? When she left? She was walking and stuff? I mean, she'll be grand, right?"
"Yes, Johnny, I'm sure she's fine." She picked up the pen on the counter and placed the cap on it. "It's just a precautionary measure."
"Really?"
"Uh-huh."
Uncertain, I blurted, "Do you think I should go – to the hospital, that is?" Shrugging, I added, "Should I visit? It's my fault she's at the hospital. I'm responsible."
"Definitely not!" Dee snapped, her tone taking on a hint of authority. "If you know what's good for you, Johnny Kavanagh, you will stay well away from the girl." She let out a loud huff before adding in a much quieter tone of voice, "Between you and me, her mother is out for your blood. You'd do well to avoid all contact with her. And if I'm being honest, the girl just doesn’t seem–" she paused, chewing on her bottom lip for a moment before finishing, "well, stable."
My brows furrowed. "What do you mean she's not stable?"
Dee chewed on her pen, looking uncomfortable.
"Dee?" I pressed. "What do you mean by that?"
"Maybe stable isn’t the appropriate word," she admitted, tone low. "But there's something… off about her."
"Off?"
"Troubling," Dee clarified and then corrected herself by saying, "Troubled. She seems troubled."
Well shite.
Trust me to fixate on the crazy.
"Right," I muttered, turning for the door again. "Thanks for the head's up."
"Keep your distance, Johnny," she called after me. "And stay away from the hospital."
Deep in thought, I strolled out of the office with the envelope in hand.
I wandered down the left wing of the main building, stopping at a row of freshly painted blue lockers outside the third-year common area.
I scanned the rows for locker number 461.
When I found the one I was looking for, I pushed the envelope through the tiny gap at the top of the metal door.